


The Eighth Ascension

by Prochytes



Category: Gotham (TV), Iron Fist (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:08:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25710379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prochytes/pseuds/Prochytes
Summary: Alfred and Bruce learn an important truth about the Dark Knight's city.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	The Eighth Ascension

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for the whole runs of _Gotham_ and _Iron Fist_.

The alarm was tripped on a quiet evening, just before Alfred was planning to serve dinner. The rebuilt Manor, on the return of Master Bruce, had fallen swiftly back into the domestic rhythms of the old. Alfred, who would never let the intended recipient see a punch coming, had very different views when it came to _omelettes aux fines herbes_. He was on the second round of ostentatious pre-prandial tidying when the winking light on the desk stirred Bruce from reverie in a way that the chink of silverware could not.

“Something’s moving,” said Alfred, as they both stared at the console, “near the heart of the Cave. Won’t be wildlife, that far in.”

Bruce nodded.

“Burglar, maybe? Some likely lad stumbled across the entrance and decided to chance his arm?”

“Improbable.” Bruce waved at the darkened row that flanked the bright alarm. “Whoever’s down there evaded every single sensor - except the innermost one. That’s not a mistake. That’s a knock.”

Alfred pursed his lips. “Shall I lay another setting for dinner, in case Miss Kyle has chosen to grace us with her presence?”

“We need to take a look.” Bruce paused at the door. “But lay the setting.”

***

It wasn’t Selina Kyle.

Bruce had asked Alfred to join him in checking out the Cave. He hadn’t put on the suit. Alfred knew that Master Bruce entertained plans for the space below the Manor, very few of which Alfred personally approved – on grounds ranging from tactical risk, to what all this said about Master Bruce’s inner life, to the likely effect on the incipient rheumatism of the old man who would be obliged to clean it. Most of these schemes were some way off fruition: the car was still in the shop for the custom modifications, and Lucius Fox said that the computer wouldn’t be ready to install for several more weeks. There remained the chance of plausible denial.

The intruder sat on a rock outcropping, not far from the intended site of the computer. Alfred could make out, even from some way across the cavern, that her frame was athletic, but small – more like Miss Kyle as she had been when Alfred first knew her than the one whose late growth spurt into the statuesque Master Bruce was still pretending not to notice. Across the intruder’s knees lay a naked sword. Bruce saw the sword, and made a slight gesture at Alfred to stay put. He advanced, donning the fop like an opera cloak.

“I’m afraid you must be lost. If you’re looking for the Renaissance fair, that’ll be in town. This… grotto is private property.” He spread his hands, the better to self-deprecate. “I know, because I own it.”

“I’m exactly where I need to be.” The intruder looked calmly up at Bruce. “Just like you are, Mr. Wayne.”

“You have me at a disadvantage.”

“I’d guess that’s usually hard to manage. But right now, Bruce Wayne – disciple of the master Kirigi, student of ten disciplines – yeah, I do.”

“Who are you?” The fop disappeared off-stage, as Bruce’s voice deepened and darkened.

“My name is Colleen Wing.”

“If you ‘need to be’ beneath my house, Colleen Wing, why is that so?”

“I’m here to ask you and Mr. Pennyworth,” the intruder nodded in Alfred’s direction, “a pair of questions. You won’t be able to answer one of them. I think, together, you’ll have a shot at the other. Once that’s done, I have some business to complete.”

“I see. And what business is that?”

“Ascension,” said Colleen Wing.

***

“I’ve known a few men who thought that they were gods,” said Alfred. “Buried all of them.”

“That’s a common mistake. Ascension doesn’t happen to people. Not to me, anyway. Not even to Mr. Wayne.”

“Then what is ascension?” said Bruce.

“That takes some explaining.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Bruce shifted to stand more squarely in front of Colleen Wing. His stance made it clear that he wasn’t the only one.

“OK.” Colleen Wing looked down at the blade across her knees, as though gathering her thoughts. “There’s a place – a realm of perfect order. Perfect obedience, perfect devotion, perfect control. At the heart of that realm writhes a beast of utter chaos: Shou-Lao, the Undying. The name of the place is K’un-Lun.”

Alfred heard an intake of breath. “This story means something to you, Master Bruce?”

“It means that I know what Ms. Wing is.” Bruce continued to stare down. “Ra’s Al Ghul kept tabs on those who desired what he had. While I was his heir, I learnt about them. One of those groups was also obsessed with returning to a place they called K’un-Lun. But K’un-Lun was hard to reach, somehow, and in every generation, a lone warrior barred their way. I think that the last of those lone warriors is here. Isn’t that so,” he hunkered down, so that his face was level with the seated woman’s, “Iron Fist?”

“You live up to your billing, detective.” Colleen Wing tapped the hilt of her sword. “It’s as you say – with a small addition. Like those who came before me, I guard the gates. Unlike those who came before me, I know that, sometimes, I have to guard them in both directions.”

She sighed. “That’s what brings me here tonight.”

***

“The other thing you need to know about K’un-Lun is that it’s a nightmare.”

“You just said that the place was perfect, Miss.”

“Perfection is crazy. It kinda has to be. Imagine order stretched to the vanishing point – way beyond where that shades into deranged. I knew a man, once, who tried to impose K’un-Lun on another city. Helping to stop him was the best damn thing I ever did. K’un-Lun is a dream of order. Can you imagine our dreams glistening and twitching in the light of day, like a fish flopping on the quay? We need them, but we really don’t need them _here_.” Colleen Wing bent again over her blade. “Which is why K’un-Lun, and places like it, go away.”

“‘Go away’?” said Bruce.

“I’ve seen such things, in this dirty, pretty world. I’ve seen a man who can’t be broken, a woman who can pick up cars. But even a world that holds things like that, couldn’t hold K’un-Lun. So K’un-Lun – slowly, over centuries – drifted a little outside Creation. First, time started to lose its grip on those who lived there. Then, the whole place became unreachable, to everywhere outside, except for short spaces, far apart. The fancy phrase is ‘out of celestial alignment’.”

“And that was why the exiles couldn’t return?”

“That’s one reason.” There was a brightness, for a moment, between Colleen Wing’s fingers, although Alfred couldn’t see a source. Perhaps a ring she was wearing had caught the light from the halogens, far above. “As you heard, Mr. Wayne, there’s always been another. Anyway, that’s the deal with the place I guard: an idea of order, and at its heart, like the grit that makes a pearl, the will to chaos of a creature in a cave, which K’un-Lun contains, but can never overcome. There the story rested, for so long.”

The brightness had died. Colleen Wing looked up. “Until K’un-Lun acquired a reflection.”

***

“This is barking,” said Alfred. “You’re not falling for this bollocks, are you, Master Bruce?”

“Crazier than a child warrior being groomed by an immortal psychopath?” Colleen Wing cocked her head as Bruce flushed. “Don’t sweat it; that happens more often than you’d guess.”

Bruce composed himself. “Tell me about this reflection.”

“Let’s think about a different place. This time, the notion that takes root, that takes over everything, isn’t order. It’s…” Colleen Wing seemed momentarily to grope for the right word. “… licence. Want. Take. Have. No rules. No limits.”

“That’s not a place I’d like to imagine.”

“You don’t need to imagine it, Mr. Wayne. You’re standing in it.”

Bruce’s face was stony. “No.”

“I’m afraid so. Gotham is… Gotham has become… an ideal city.”

“I see that you haven’t taken the walking tour yet, Miss.”

“I don’t think that’s the kind of ‘ideal’ that Ms. Wing means, Alfred.”

A glance upwards. “You read philosophy?”

“I read everything.”

“He does, and all,” said Alfred. “Always has.”

“You can prove me wrong,” Colleen Wing stretched her back, “if either of you gentlemen can answer my first question.”

“You may not have heard, Miss, not being local. But in these parts, we don’t go a bundle on answering riddles.”

“I won’t ask a riddle. Just a simple question. If you can answer it – to your satisfaction, not mine – I’ll walk out of that cave mouth now. If you can’t, I think you’ll see why I have to be here.”

“Go on, then.” Alfred squared his shoulders. “Quiz me. Hard as you like.”

“OK.” Colleen Wing rested her chin on her hands. “What’s the current calendar year?”

“That’s all you’ve got, Miss? Ed Nygma needn’t fear for his bowler, then.”

“Like I said: a simple question.”

“It’s nineteen thirt…” Alfred pulled himself up. “Slip of the tongue. It’s nineteen… no, twenty, of course, twenty…” The numbers danced out of reach, like a tidy boxer. “Twenty ten?”

“No.”

“Why don’t I know?” Alfred limped towards the woman on the rock. “Why aren’t I sure? Twenty fifteen.”

“You’re still out,” said Colleen Wing. Up close, Alfred realized that she wasn’t the late twentysomething he had initially assumed. He saw delicate lines around her eyes, her mouth; the faintest of silver filigree in the hair. She could easily be a fit and well-preserved woman in her fifties. “By quite some way.”

***

“If you still doubt me, ask Mr. Wayne.”

“This is a trick, surely, Master Bruce?” Alfred turned to Bruce, who stood silent, head bowed. “We’ve run across chancers before who could mess with your mind: Tetch; that little gobshite Hugo Strange. That’s got to be what she’s pulling here.”

“She isn’t, Alfred.” Bruce would not meet his eye. “I only noticed when I came back. At first, I thought that Gotham was just… behind the times. But it’s more than that. The tech’s a jumble; people don’t remember dates. Every time I mean to investigate, I forget. In another few months, I suspect that I won’t notice, either.”

Alfred wheeled back on Colleen Wing. “How do we stop this?”

“You can’t. Gotham and the world chafe on each other, now. Everyone needs a dream of licence, but utter licence needs to be a dream. Gotham has to rise, and join the other seven Capital Cities of Heaven. The eighth ascension. That’ll take centuries to complete. But it starts today.”

“I see,” said Bruce. “But you’re not the only one who has a question.”

“Ask it.”

“Who dies tonight, Iron Fist?” Bruce glanced at Colleen Wing’s lap. “A warrior does not bare her blade, unless she means to use it.”

“You know the Code.”

“Like I said: I read everything.”

“No one dies tonight,” said Colleen Wing. “And no one will. Not from what happens here. I was an orphan child, too, Mr. Wayne. You have my word, as the Iron Fist, that ascension will not make a single other.”

“Then why is your sword drawn?”

Colleen Wing stood up, shouldering her blade. “Let me show you.”

***

She led the two men behind the outcrop on which she had been sitting. The changing perspective revealed an expanse of cavern floor. Across it, a thick black ribbon of what looked like smoke churned its way from darkness into darkness.

“This is the Tether. An umbilical cord, tying Gotham to the world that gave it birth.”

“Looks strong,” said Alfred.

“If you can see the Tether, then it isn’t. The strongest ties are those that we can’t see.”

Alfred tentatively reached his stick out to the Tether. The solid cherry-wood shaft passed straight through. “How are you planning to cut smoke, Miss?”

“You’ve asked my second question for me, Mr. Pennyworth. How am I planning to cut smoke?”

Alfred bit his lip. “This is the right call, Master Bruce?”

“I’m sure.”

Alfred thought about smoke in the brick kilns of Stepney, long ago. A world the dream logic of Gotham had effaced. He sighed; tucked down the memory; and let it go. “You have a sword that cuts through anything.”

“That’s a good answer. Mr. Wayne?”

Bruce watched as light kindled in Colleen Wing’s slender hand. “You _are_ the sword that cuts through anything.”

“That’s a better one.”

The bright sword rose. In the years, or decades, that followed, Bruce would sometimes remember a fall of bladed light. But such memories, ever brief, came less often with the passing years – if years they were. And when Bruce was troubled by them, he could always return, on a whirl of black wings, to where he kept his hoarded marvels, and dream of justice in his quiet cave.

FINIS


End file.
